displaced: the way you are
by forthecoast
Summary: Five times they never met, and one time they almost did. Jane/Lisbon.


**Title:** displaced (the way you are)  
**Rating:** K+  
**Disclaimer: **Not it.  
**Spoilers:** Just a few vague references to canon. That's the beauty of AU fics, I suppose.  
**Summary:** Five times they never met, and one time they almost did.  
**Author's Note:** So, I think this is pretty self-explanatory. I find that five times fic is a useful outlet for my occasional tendencies towards "Hey, I wonder what if ...?" without going overboard. I've done this for other fandoms in the past and I've wanted to write this for Jane/Lisbon since April, although I've never quite been able to carve out the time to do it.

Thanks to Yana for betaing - and catering to my ridiculous type A personality while I was reordering these scenes. The title of this is actually from two different songs, mashed together. One is by Azure Ray, the other is by 46 Bliss. Oh, and there's a line in Part III that I lifted directly from the show. Blink and you'll miss it.

I know which scenario is my favorite, but I'm very curious about yours. And as far as the summary goes: I left you a hint; it's up to you to decide which is the one that doesn't belong ;)

PS: FFN won't let me use the proper formatting for my title. I don't know what it has against parentheses, but I am not pleased. The correct title is as above, parentheses included.

xxxxx

_you and I_  
_side by side_  
_we are the next time 'round_  
-Vienna Teng

xxxxx

i.

The late afternoon sunshine in southern California is almost infectious. By the time she hits her stride, about half a mile into her run, Senior Agent Teresa Lisbon finds herself feeling somewhat lighter than she did when she started out.

It has only been three months since she was promoted to senior agent, and her current case is the most difficult one she's had since her promotion. A woman and her three children were killed in a house fire, and every piece of evidence they have points to the husband as their prime suspect.

Her team has held themselves together with a resiliency she could not have hoped for, and she finds added strength in Cho's stoic insights and Rigsby's fierce loyalty. Rigsby's previous arson experience has proven to be especially useful to the investigation.

Yet in spite of this, Lisbon finds her greatest catharsis during such a difficult case is a good run, allowing the endorphins to alleviate some of the stresses of her new position. As she makes her way along the sidewalk, breathing heavily as she picks up speed, she realizes this release will be even more necessary next month if Minelli turns the Red John case over to her as he has indicated is his intention.

She rounds the corner and starts running down a tree-lined cul-de-sac. At the end of the street, she hears the sound of children's laughter carrying in the breeze, and she catches sight of a small park, complete with a jungle gym and swing sets. As she approaches the playground area, she's halted by a bright pink rubber ball that rolls out into the street.

She jogs out and retrieves the stray ball, her eyes scanning the park to locate its rightful owner. It takes only a few seconds before she finds what she's looking for in the family standing together in the grassy area beside the swing set.

Mother and daughter stand side by side, both in sundresses with their long blonde hair blowing wildly in the breeze as if in time with their laughter. However, it's the father who catches her attention. He looks familiar, like someone she thinks she may have seen on television when she was flipping through channels late at night not too long ago. She does a double take, but decides she must be wrong. After all, this man is dressed casually, in jeans and a t-shirt with no regard for haute couture; he couldn't possibly be the same person.

Lisbon chides herself inwardly for her momentary lapse and lobs the ball underhand in the direction of the father, who drops it even though she threw it right at him.

He shrugs and grins broadly, and Lisbon laughs in spite of herself. She hears the daughter call out, _"You're supposed to catch it, Daddy!"_ in playful exasperation, and she watches intently as the father turns back to his family. She doesn't have to see his face to know the affection and adoration he holds for both his wife and daughter; it's palpable even from a distance.

Lisbon lingers for a few seconds before continuing on her run.

It's comforting to think that at least some families _do_ get their happy endings.

ii.

Teresa settles back in the first empty seat she can find as the unpleasant cacophony of Friday night in the emergency room buzzes in her ears. Squinting in the bright florescent lights, the smell of injury and disease mixed with antiseptic invades her senses, and she loses track of time easily in between small children crying, young men bleeding, and old women retching.

It is nearly half an hour later when a short, stocky woman clad in bright pink printed scrubs interrupts her stream of consciousness. "Excuse me, miss. You brought Thomas Lisbon in?"

"Yes, ma'am," she replies, giving a short nod of her head. "He's my brother."

The woman leans over just slightly and holds out a clipboard. "I'm Sue, and I'm the nurse who's been taking care of him," she explains, brows furrowing as she searches the rest of the waiting room. "We have a few more things we need your parents to sign. Are they here with you?"

"I'm eighteen," she answers shortly, digging through her wallet to find her driver's license. Her fingers finally locate the proper ID card, tugging it free from its worn-leather confines. Tucked away in the back corner of her wallet, her fingers land on another item of equal importance: her father's signature on a folded page ripped from a notebook. She turns both items over to the nurse before her. "I can sign permission to treat," she explains.

Sue looks from the driver's license to Teresa and back again, eyes peering over the edge of her bifocals before she sighs and places the clipboard in Teresa's waiting hands.

"Okay, honey," she replies, handing the driver's license back and fingering the stethoscope around her neck. "Bring these back up to the registration desk when you're finished."

Teresa nods her understanding before taking hold of the clipboard. She fills in each line of the triplicate forms slowly and deliberately, without once having to glance at her wallet for their insurance information or Tommy's social security number. When she finishes, she entrusts the forms to the woman sitting at the front desk as instructed and returns to her seat to find someone in the chair next to her. A blond-haired boy not too much older than she is, smiling cheerfully although the palm of his hand is wrapped in gauze

"Hello," he greets her as she retakes her seat.

Teresa nods her head slightly in acknowledgement; she isn't particularly interested in small talk, regardless of attractive her company is.

"You looked like you could use someone to talk to," he persists.

She sighs. "Thanks, but I'm fine."

"Really, Teresa?"

Her head snaps up in shock. "How did you know my name?"

"I know things." He shrugs, then grins broadly. "For example, I know that you're not eighteen, you're not even sixteen. That driver's license you gave the nurse just now is a fake."

His smile then softens, and he leans toward her, until their shoulders almost touch. "You needn't worry, Teresa; I'd never tell on you. I know you only use the fake license because someone in your family has to be a responsible driver."

Teresa looks away, thoughts of her father passed out in a drunken stupor on the sofa at home swarming in her head. Somehow, although she has no reason to trust this mysterious stranger, she understands that her secret is safe with him.

"Of course, if you want the easy answer, I just happened to be walking by while you were filling out your brother's forms." He winks, and she laughs in spite of herself, as if somehow his cheerful demeanor is infectious. "I'm Patrick. I'd shake your hand, but -" he gestures with his injured arm.

"What happened?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," he answers. "Let's just say that it's an occupational hazard."

Eyebrow raised, she asks, "What do you mean?"

"It's really not that interesting, I promise. I'll tell you something that _is_ interesting, though."

Patrick stops to make sure he has her attention, then motions around the waiting room with his good hand.

He spends the next hour entertaining her with stories of distraught new parents, here because their infant son swallowed a quarter, and the wannabe rock star (who tries hard but isn't especially talented), here because he ate bad chicken after one of his shows. Teresa does not even realize that she's allowed herself to relax until the nurse returns, announcing that Tommy is going to be admitted overnight for observation due to the extent of his injuries, and would she like to go back and see him?

Teresa jumps up eagerly from her seat, anxious to check on her brother, to see for herself that he's going to be alright. She glances back at Patrick, but her voice catches when she goes to say 'goodbye.' Nodding instead, her face flushes when he smiles brightly in her direction.

All thoughts of her unusual but charming new friend flee from her mind the moment she catches sight of Tommy, lying unconscious in the hospital bed, black and blue in stark contrast to the crisp white sheets. She sits by her brother's bedside, keeping vigil through the night, and sleeps fitfully through nightmares that are far too real to be dreams.

When she wakes in the morning, Tommy is still sleeping, but the doctors assure her that he's doing better. In the windowsill, Teresa finds a small vase filled with a bouquet of gerber daisies, and she frowns. No one except her other brothers even knew that Tommy was in the hospital, and Michael had been at home tending to Charlie and their father all night.

Curiosity gets the better of her, and she treads carefully over to the window. Peering into the flowers tentatively, she finds no card to reveal their source. However, she steps back, startled, when an origami frog jumps out from behind the vase and lands softly on the floor.

Bending over to rescue the fallen paper animal, her eyes catch sight of elegant handwriting against the otherwise pristine white paper. She unfolds the origami message with delicate precision, fascinated by the detail in each crease, until the note reveals a phone number and the name of a traveling carnival.

_'Just in case. -Patrick'_ it reads.

She fingers one flower gingerly, smiling to herself. She doesn't think she'll ever call him, but she slips the frog in her pocket.

Just in case.

iii.

"Mr. Jane?"

From the moment she walks into the interview room, Lisbon is acutely aware of the rest of her team on the other side of the one-way glass. The man seated across from her stares blankly ahead, his cuffed hands folded carefully on top of the table that separates them. He nods slowly, and she takes that as her cue to continue.

"I'm Agent Lisbon. I'm told you've already been read your rights, and you've declined to have any counsel appointed at this time. Is this correct?"

He nods again, and Lisbon studies him more closely this time. His eyes are dull, but not entirely lifeless; he gives off the appearance of only a shell of the man he once was, the man she has seen only in pictures.

"And you are not denying that you are responsible for the death of Theo Hixon, the man who you believe to be Red John?"

"He _is_ Red John."

It's the first time he's uttered a single word since he was arrested earlier that morning, and she is surprised at the calm and even tone of his voice.

With a glance at the tape recorder sitting to her left, she raises an eyebrow. "Care to elaborate on that?"

"Theo Hixon is Red John. If you go to his storage locker down by the pier, you'll have your proof."

She inhales sharply, clenching one hand into a fist. "If you had information on Red John, you should have brought it to the police immediately."

"So you could arrest him, and he could stand trial? No." He suddenly shifts forward and his voice accelerates, just slightly. "Red John is dead. That's justice."

"That's not justice, that's vengeance." She insists, her face contorting in disbelief.

"Either way, he got what he deserved."

Lisbon finds the steely edge that settles behind his eyes eerie, almost unnerving, but she presses on. "Red John deserves to be sitting in jail, awaiting his trial in a court of law. No one deserves to die like that."

Immediately, the look on Patrick Jane's face softens as he breaks eye contact, although his voice is as steady and resolved as ever. "My wife and daughter didn't deserve to die like that."

Her eyes fall on his cuffed wrists, and she notices the gold band that sits on his left ring finger. As a reflex, her own hands clasp together, and she subconsciously touches her own wedding ring, as if to reassure herself that it's still there. Although she is mindful of the interview tape still rolling, her senior agent persona seems somehow inappropriate.

"This can't be what your wife and daughter would have wanted for you," she remarks softly. "Avenging their deaths, but at what cost to your own life?"

When he reestablishes eye contact, there is no strength or resolve left in his expression, neither hardness nor softness; only defeat, cold and empty. "At what cost?" he repeats, slowly, deliberately slowly, drawing out every syllable. The sad smile on his face makes her want to look away, but she cannot.

"My life ended a long time ago."

xxx

That night Lisbon tosses and turns restlessly while Will lies beside her on his back, fast asleep. She finds the sound of his incessant snores comforting.

Moonlight shines through the blinds and casts shadows across the bedroom, illuminating her husband's sleeping form. Her eyes fall on the clock on his nightstand, the bright red digital numbers telling her that it's 12:17 AM. Carefully, she eases herself out of bed and pulls on her housecoat, padding quietly out of the bedroom and down the stairs into the kitchen.

It's not until she is warming milk in a saucepan on the stovetop that she remembers the many nights when her mother used to do this for her, when she was unable to sleep as a child. Her free hand reaches up to idly brush against her mother's cross, remembering those nights together, and she wonders if Patrick Jane's wife ever shared similar moments with their daughter.

"Teresa?"

She turns just in time to see Will sleepily rub his eyes as he steps into place behind her; the warmth of his hand a calming presence against her lower back.

"Hey," she says, relaxing into his touch as she continues to stir the milk in rhythmic circles. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you."

"It's okay. Do you want to talk about whatever happened today at work?"

She stares down into the saucepan, watching as the milk ripples in the spoon's wake. "Nothing really. Just a man I met." She exhales, tapping the spoon against the side of the pan. "I think we may have closed the Red John case today."

"Well that's great. Isn't it?"

"It is. But you know, I've had that case for six years, and I realized today that there are victims whose families I've never met." Flashing a tight smile, she cuts off the burner and removes the pan, pouring the contents into her waiting mug. "Can I ... ask you something?"

He takes her free hand in his, entwining their fingers together. "Of course."

"If something ever happens to me, I need you to promise me that you'll try to be happy. Move on. Live your life."

"Teresa -" His expression falters, and he runs one hand along her forehead, brushing back her bangs. "Don't talk like that. Nothing's going to happen to you."

"I don't have any intentions of going anywhere," she begins, squeezing his hand for emphasis. "But Will, please. I need you to promise me."

"Okay, okay." He kisses her cheek affectionately. "I promise."

"Thank you." Lisbon releases a breath she didn't know she'd been holding. She senses his reluctance to continue with this line of conversation, so she leans in, kissing him softly on the mouth. "I love you, Will. Go back to bed; I'll be up in a minute."

"I love you, too," he says, and she smiles as he hesitates by the kitchen door before disappearing up the staircase.

Five minutes later, she returns to bed. This time, she falls asleep immediately.

iv.

The bell chimes as the door swings open, and Patrick Jane watches closely as three girls file inside, one immediately after the other. College-aged, he guesses, juniors or seniors by the look of them, and part of the spring break crowd that has been frequenting his shop all week.

From his position behind the counter, tucked away from their line of vision, he can watch them uninterrupted as the disappear behind a set of shelves. He pretends to busy himself with the cash register, all the while observing them out of the corner of his eye. Two of them appear fascinated, perusing every item that lines the merchandise shelves. All of the new age paraphernalia that his clients seem to like so much.

However, it's the third one who catches his attention.

She hangs back from the others, obviously both disinterested and unimpressed. Although he cannot discern specifics from this distance, she does not appear to be the typical college student in town for a week of partying her way through each club on the boardwalk. There's an edge to the way that she carries herself, one that tells him that her life has left her guarded.

At that moment, the other two girls look up, all loud whispers and giggles as they talk amongst themselves.

"Do you think that's him? You know, Patrick Jane, like the sign says?"

"He looks too young to be a psychic. I mean, really."

"No, you mean he looks too _cute_ to be a psychic. But it has to be him. Would the cashier really be dressed like that?"

"What do you think, Teresa? He _is_ cute."

He listens more carefully as the third girl finally speaks up.

"I think that suit looks ridiculous on him," she scoffs. "Aren't you done here already?"

"Oh, I don't think so. Look, T -" the girl with pin-straight blonde hair points to the sign on the wall. "We could get him to do a reading. Come on, it'll be fun!"

"If you want a reading so much, Heather, why don't you get one for yourself?"

"Because you need a little fun in your life," the other, a redhead, chimes in. "Besides, you're the one he was just looking at, Teresa."

The redhead comes forward, dragging Teresa by the arm. Heather follows closely behind.

"Excuse me," Heather asks. "Are you Mr. Jane?"

He puts on his best showman's grin and emerges from behind the counter. "Why yes I am."

"I'm Heather," she explains, then motions to both of her friends. Teresa, he notes, has freed herself of the redhead's grasp with ease. "This is Melissa, and this - is Teresa. We wanted to inquire about a reading."

Up close, he notices, she is even more striking. Her green eyes shine with irritation, but there's an intensity that she hides just below the surface. Something that makes him want closer, even though he's spent his whole life to this point trying to establish distance. After all, it's the only way he'll ever survive in this line of work; to share his secret would be his downfall.

"Mr. Jane?"

It is Melissa's voice that interrupts his train of thoughts.

"My apologies," he answers. "You were asking about a reading? Which one of you is interested?"

"Actually," Melissa casts a conspiring glance at Heather. "We're interested in one for Teresa."

Teresa shoots daggers at both of her friends. "No, we're not. I'm sorry we bothered you. We were just leaving."

"No, no," he insists, stepping forward and taking one of her hands before she can offer resistance. "Really, it's my pleasure."

The moment he takes her hand, however, there is an instant shift in her demeanor. Disinterest and irritation gives way to genuine concern, maybe even fear. She pulls away, but his grip is strong and he keeps her in place.

That's when he reads her - genuinely reads her - for the first time. The defeat in her eyes gives all of her secrets away.

He holds her gaze, uncertainty on him like a vice grip, and words, always his first line of defense, fail him.

He can't do this, not to her. And it unnerves him, because this hasn't happened since he was a teenager.

"Actually," he stutters, drawing out a glance to the clock on the wall behind him. "I forgot. I have an appointment in five minutes."

"That's okay." Relief washes over her face almost instantly, and her hand drops back to her side. She turns to her friends, and they move closer to the front of the shop. "I, uh - Well, thanks anyway."

At their retreating figures, he calls, "Maybe some other time."

Heather and Melissa disappear together, although the bell chimes just once to announce their departure. Teresa pauses at the doorway and lingers for just a moment, but then she too is gone.

It feels unmistakably like loss.

v.

Patrick Jane sits at the bar, nursing his first scotch as he scans the crowds of people, grateful that, for once, he actually blends in instead of standing out; his usual flashy suits replaced with more casual attire. He discovers that not being the center of attention actually has its benefits, that he enjoys the luxury of observing others without having to maintain his act.

His guard is down, but he notices her the moment she walks into the room. She is beautiful, yes, but many women are beautiful. She is _different_, and when she takes the barstool next to his, he finds himself inching closer, interested in making conversation for the first time all evening.

He downs the remainder of his drink and motions for the bartender. "I'll take another scotch," he pauses for effect, casting a side glance at the woman to his left. "And a gin martini for the lady."

As the bartender turns his back to prepare the drinks, the woman turns to him, her eyes raised in shock and disbelief.

"I'm sorry, who are you?" she snaps.

"I'm Patrick." He smiles as the bartender places each glass down on the counter. He holds out his hand, and she accepts, somewhat reluctantly. "Bad date tonight?"

At this, her eyes widen even more, which he had not thought possible. "Excuse me - I mean, how did you -? What the hell?" she stutters indignantly.

He initially thought she might refuse the drink, but apparently his insights have blindsided her enough that she eagerly brings the glass to her lips. Her gaze narrows, studying him intently, and he realizes that she does not recognize him at all.

"Educated guess," he shrugs, nonchalant, flashing a smile in her direction. "You know, in polite society if a man buys a woman a drink, I believe that at least warrants a proper introduction."

Her lips, in response, seem to curl upwards of their own volition. "I'm Teresa," she says finally.

"Teresa," he repeats. "You don't come here often, do you?"

Tilting her head to one side, she replies, "You must not either if you're asking me."

"I've only been in San Francisco for a week," he admits. The scotch burns his throat as he takes another sip. "And that's very observant of you."

"Well, I get paid to be observant," she retorts, dryly.

"Ahhh. A cop, then?"

Her eyes widen again, a brilliant shade of green in spite of the dim lighting. "Okay, how do you _do_ that?"

He smiles, feigning innocence. "Do what?"

"That _thing_. You know."

"It's not hard. I'm just paying attention."

As a psychic, this would be the point that he would usually reach out and hold his client's hand. Instinctively, he knows not to try this on Teresa just yet. He looks up to meet her eyes over her martini glass, holding her gaze before he continues.

"You came in alone and weren't looking for anyone, so you weren't meeting someone here. You're dressed up, but not over the top. You move well enough in your heels to be comfortable in them, but you don't dress up often. You're in jeans and not a skirt or a dress, so it must have been a casual date. I'd say coffee at the Starbucks a few blocks away - which, I may add, was his first mistake tonight."

"Oh really?" Her tone is sarcastic, but her eyes shine with amusement that she attempts to mask - unsuccessfully. "If you are right, why was that his first mistake?"

"I'm just saying that he obviously has no idea how to treat a woman of your caliber if he's taking you to Starbucks on your first date."

Shaking her head, she laments, "This is the last time I let my friend at the DA's office set me up with one of her brother's friends." Finishing off her drink, her voice becomes direct, almost bold. "And given that you obviously _do_ know, I assume you have no trouble finding women."

Jane signals to the bartender for another martini.

"I'm sure your finely-tuned detective skills have already alerted you to my lack of a wedding ring," he answers her unspoken question, wondering about the identity of the married man who inspired her mistrust. He smiles reassuringly, and this time he does reach out to take her hand. She doesn't pull away, and encouraged, he adds, "I almost was once, but that was a long time ago."

The last vestiges of trepidation seem to melt away, and she returns his smile, her hand warm in his.

"You know," she begins, a soft edge to her voice that wasn't there before. "I don't usually do - this."

"I know. But you don't usually go on blind dates, either."

The subsequent sound of her laughter reverberates deep inside him.

"No, I usually don't. And see how well _that_ turned out for me?"

"Then what we need to do," he says, feeling her pulse quicken beneath his fingers, "is just to change your luck."

vi.

He hates everything about traveling the carnival circuit, from the tents to the acrobats to his own father, the magician. But what he hates most is his own name on the sign.

_PATRICK JANE: BOY WONDER._

He counts down the days, everyday, until his eighteenth birthday, but with little relief; his reprieve is still almost three years away.

Relieved that, for once, his father does not need his help with a client, he escapes the confines of their tent, happy to blend in with the crowds. This anonymity is new to him, and he relishes its unconfined freedom. He wanders aimlessly for over an hour.

Up ahead of him, he notices a family standing by one of the vendors. Mother, father, three brothers, older sister; the girl, only a few years his junior, wears a red coat that stands out. What strikes him the most, however, is that they are all standing together, laughing as they share cotton candy.

They look happy.

He stops to watch in fascination when the girl looks up and meets his eye.

She smiles, then turns back to her mother.

He turns and goes back to work.

xxxxx


End file.
